Seen And Not Seen (The Veil Book 1)

by Bowden, William

  Felton’s voice comes over the intercom, “It’ll be a clue to something we need to worry about. Keep trying.”

  Lucius resumes his shuffling.

  COOKED GOOSE

  Robert sweeps into the grand lobby of the Pan Am building with Toor and Landelle in tow, striding confidently to the reception desk. Smartly dressed people going about their business stop, stare, and gasp; they are quicker to recognize him here.

  At the reception desk security guards bristle, squaring up to a possible situation as Robert sidles up. He slaps both palms down on the countertop so as to address the tense receptionist in very direct manner, tempered with a crocodile smile.

  “My name is Robert Cantor. This is my aide-de-camp, Sharanjit Toor, and this is Special Agent Deborah Landelle of the British Secret Service. We’re here to see Raymond Fellowes, president of Pan American Airways.”

  The receptionist knows who Robert is. Everyone does. And she knows that he probably has every right to be here and that Mr. Fellowes will see him. But the moment, her relative youth, and everything else that is going on, do not make for a good mix.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Fellowes…”

  A polite smile, a tappity-tap on the countertop and Robert is away, heading toward the security gate. Landelle has a slow shake of her head for the uncertain security guards—don’t even think it—as they pass through unhindered.

  * * *

  Robert is full tilt as he marches toward the double doors to Fellowes’s office, pushing them open in a single motion without breaking stride. Within, a man rises from a large desk in an Art Deco office. Raymond Fellowes, a dapper chief executive.

  “Hey, Ray!”

  Fellowes signals a silent ‘OK’ to his fraught secretary before turning his attention to the manic Robert. “I take it you are in the ascendancy?”

  Robert plops down in a comfortable chair before the desk. Fellowes reseats himself, cautiously eying Toor and Landelle as they flank Robert.

  Fellowes returns his gaze to Robert, with a Cheshire Cat grin. “The State Department’s having kittens and the word is Blake’s got something on you. Your goose is cooked, my friend.”

  “Ray. Need a favor.”

  * * *

  F.B.I. Agent Prior smells promotion. Sure, the Director had teams all over Manhattan, but he was the first to get here. And it was a solid lead.

  The Supreme Court had ruled years ago on the legislative process of serving a subpoena in this digital age, after many challenges in the lower courts. They had also clarified the right not to be served and thus it was that Robert Cantor had eluded them all this time. All Prior had to do was to present Cantor the simple sheaf of papers which he had at the ready in a black folio. Cantor didn’t even have to actually take them provided there were witnesses—the posse dutifully following the young, arrogant agent as he marches to the reception desk of the Pan Am lobby.

  Prior slaps a notice down on the countertop, “This is a standing warrant to enter any building in the Metropolitan area.” The receptionist isn’t the least bit surprised, given her previous encounter of the morning, and waves him on with an air of resigned ambivalence—it’s going to be a long day.

  The agents sweep through the security gate, the security guards equally compliant.

  * * *

  Fellowes clambers of his chair to scramble around the side of his desk, confronting Robert directly. “Are you out of your goddamned mind?”

  “It’s not illegal,” Robert says.

  Fellowes leans right in, “I don’t care! I’m not doing it!”

  “I resurrected Pan Am and gave it to you. I can take it away again.”

  That Robert could do that is of no surprise to Fellowes, but that he actually would still manages to take him aback. Seeing the shock on his friend’s face, Robert backs off, shifting uneasily in his seat—pleading is not his style.

  “Ray… this thing. They mean to take me down. I need to fight it.”

  Fellowes lowers his head with a sigh.

  * * *

  With the elevator doors barely half open, Prior wastes no time in exiting onto the executive floor, making his way down the corridor to Fellowes’s office, past his alarmed secretary and through the Art Deco double doors, folio at the ready.

  The room is empty save for a despondent Fellowes, perched on the edge of his desk. Prior’s manifest frustration is quickly replaced by wide-eyed realization as his bewildered posse catch up with him. “Roof!”

  * * *

  The helideck that made the Pan Am building so iconic still serves the purpose for which it was designed, albeit updated for the twenty-first century. A shuttle VTOL sits at the far end—a Vertical Take-Off and Landing craft, like a helicopter, but without the rotor blades—its vertical thrusters silent.

  Toor exits onto the helideck, racing toward the VTOL. A confused Landelle is right behind her, followed by Robert. As Toor and Landelle run on Robert comes to an abrupt halt, turning to fix his gaze on the slender skyscraper that dominates the New York skyline. The sight mesmerizes him.

  Toor rushes past the VTOL’s uncertain pilot, now receiving some instruction on his headset. Without breaking a beat she climbs aboard through the open side hatch, scrambling forward to the flight deck and into the pilot’s seat. In one single motion she pulls the seat harness down and across her and sets about starting the engines, brusquely and confidently.

  An incredulous Landelle appears right behind her, “Sharanjit! What are you doing?” The engines wind up to speed. “You can fly one of these things?”

  “All good P.A.s can, Debs. Where’s Bob?”

  Landelle launches herself back to the hatch. Robert is some distance away staring at the slender tower. “Bob!!”

  The F.B.I. burst out onto the roof. Robert snaps to, but Prior has already spied him, “Cantor!”

  A brief moment of eye contact before Robert lunges into a run. Prior follows suit, folio in hand. It’s a ten second sprint with both men giving it everything, the VTOL engines now screaming at full pitch.

  Robert leaps up at the hatch without breaking stride, grabbing a hand hold just as the VTOL lifts away. He turns to see Prior toss the folio at the hatch—the thrust throws it back in the agent’s face, the folio opening up and the papers scattering in the downdraft.

  Toor peels across the city as Robert makes his way to the flight deck and clambers into the co-pilot’s seat. Landelle, mouth agape, looks first at Toor then at a grinning Robert.

  “We manufacture these, you know,” he says.

  FORCED HAND

  Monica Satori gazes over the cityscape at the Pan Am building, Robert’s VTOL having lifted off and sliding away. Her gaze is unwavering and unblinking. Behind her sit the board of Cantor Satori, a group of men and women at various positions around the ringed boardroom table. Among them is Jerome Ellis, wearing his usual gray tunic suit.

  All eyes are on the back of Monica’s head. She can feel them boring in. The tension palpable, she turns to face them. Despite the mood her composure remains calm and self-assured. The same cannot be said of the board members, one woman appearing quite ashen.

  “We stand to lose everything we have worked for,” the woman says. “If Robert carries on like this, Senator Blake’s committee—”

  “We’ve got to cut Cantor loose, before he takes us all down,” seconds Ellis, his voice void of any emotion. “He is out of control.”

  Monica nods a reluctant acceptance of the situation. “It seems we have some difficult choices to make. Dr. Ellis and I will set about instigating the appropriate steps. The rest of you proceed accordingly.”

  * * *

  Lucius is on his hands and knees shuffling sheets of paper about the containment room floor. No pattern beyond the first two sheets has revealed itself, to his manifest vexation.

  His eyes come to rest on a particular drawing. He picks it up. A large, shaded dot and more curved lines about it. He tosses it back.

  “Maybe there’s no pattern at all,” th
e slump in his shoulders betrays his sense of defeat.

  “The puppets upset her,” says the nurse. “Now what?”

  Lucius looks at the child. Apio smiles back.

  ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK

  The VTOL has set down in a private aviation area of Newark Airport, next to a large hangar. A bewildered Landelle follows Robert and Toor as they make their way to a jetliner adorned with the Cantor Satori company logo, a tow truck attached to its front landing gear. At the foot of the boarding stairs Landelle halts Robert as Toor races on up.

  “Bob, where the hell are we going?”

  “Nevada.”

  “What? No, the hearings…” But Robert is already bounding up the steps. An exasperated Landelle follows him as he disappears inside, passing a member of the ground crew. Robert is quick to close and lock the door from the inside.

  “Calls to make. Go sit up front with Shaz.” Before Landelle can respond he is off again, heading aft into the aircraft’s stylish interior.

  An abandoned Landelle looks about. Nobody in sight. The planes moves with a judder and clunk—Landelle has to steady herself before heading forward past alcoves and seating areas, all empty.

  She arrives at the flight deck. Toor is in the pilot’s seat carrying out preflight checks.

  “Strap yourself in. Use the jump seat.”

  Landelle is completely lost for words. She pulls out the jump seat and dons a set of headphones. Outside the tow truck moves off—they are out of the hangar, poised next to a taxi lane.

  “Tower. This is Charlie Sierra One. Requesting permission to taxi.”

  Robert places video call from his onboard office. Raymond Fellowes’s somber face appears.

  “Need that ticket to ride, Ray.”

  Fellowes heaves a resigned sigh.

  * * *

  The chief tower controller surveys the airfield through a pair of binoculars. It is a hot and busy day with a long queue of planes. One minor hitch early in the morning and now everything was backed up. An assistant controller breaks away from a phone conversation and calls over to him.

  “Got Robert Cantor’s plane requesting permission to taxi.”

  The chief controller peels himself away from his binoculars to face the team. “What? There’s no slot for his plane today.”

  Another tower controller chimes in from his desk, “Pan Am just canceled their Vegas slot. They’re giving it to Cantor. Can they do that?”

  As the chief controller processes these bits of information a security officer throws another into the mix, “The F.B.I. just turned up. Got ourselves a situation here.”

  All look to a rolling news broadcast on an overhead screen. Cantor’s evasion of the F.B.I. subpoena has been wall-to-wall coverage all morning. For the chief controller it all adds up to one thing.

  “Jesus H. Christ.” A moment’s contemplation is sufficient to find the route of least resistance. “OK, let’s get them out of our hair. Clear them for West One. They can take Pan Am’s position.”

  “That’s near the front of the queue.”

  “Best hurry up and get them out there then,” the chief says.

  The instructed controller makes to contact Cantor’s plane, turning first to the rest of his colleagues, “You seen who’s right behind Pan Am?” he says with a grin, “They sure ain’t gonna be happy about this.”

  The security officer just stares back at chief controller. The chief just shrugs his shoulders, “The man has the right not to be served.”

  The clearance is given.

  * * *

  Robert freshens up with a well-worn ten minute regime—a quick, wet shave under a shower, fresh shirt, slacks and polished pair of brogues create a smart-casual business look, transforming him from borderline hobo to the man of the moment that he himself has created. Wasting no time on unnecessary preening he heads forward to the flight deck, his stride confident, his demeanor focused. He is full tilt, having risen from the depths of despair, ridden the roller coaster of mania and leveled out. For him this is the calm at the eye of the storm. A chance to achieve.

  He enters the flight deck, clambering past Landelle and into the co-pilot’s seat—just as Toor swings the plane around to face the full length of the runway. Donning a headset he hears the tower.

  “Charlie Sierra One. You are cleared for take-off.”

  Toor applies full thrust.

  * * *

  The plane levels out above the cloud deck. Robert is settled in and ready to relax, “I’ll take it from here for a bit, Shaz. Set up the conference room.”

  Toor extricates herself from the pilot seat to find Landelle raising her eyebrows at her. A knowing grin from Toor, one woman to another; Robert Cantor scrubs up very well indeed.

  * * *

  Agent Prior, still deluded by possible success, bursts into the control tower, airside security behind him. “You are to stop Cantor’s plane immediately.”

  The chief controller takes an instant dislike to the young man, “On whose authority?”

  Prior can’t help puffing up, “The Federal Bureau of Investigation,” shoving his warrant forward.

  The chief controller takes his time to casually inspect the warrant as an agitated Prior looks on.

  “Looks like you’re too late, son.”

  * * *

  The nurse plays with Apio in the containment room. It’s a puzzle comprising colored bricks that must be arranged in a certain way and Apio has the solution in her sights. As the final brick is pushed into place she giggles with delight, looking to the nurse for praise.

  To one side the sheets of paper remain scattered about.

  CONFRONTATION

  The conference room onboard Robert Cantor’s private airliner is easily large enough to accommodate a generous boardroom table of some length and the dozen or so chairs to go with it. But this space is completely empty—entirely devoid of any object or feature, with windowless smooth walls.

  Robert stands poised at one end. The lights dim and he steps forward as hidden holographic projectors create a scene around him.

  A hundred miles away Monica Satori stands equally poised in her Manhattan office, the windows heavily shaded. The ghostly projection of Robert’s three-dimensional avatar steps forth. Each stands their ground, their expressions betraying nothing.

  “What’s become of you, Bob?”

  “Is it true?” he says.

  Monica averts her eyes, turning her head away as he comes close to press his question.

  “Is—it—true?”

  She returns her gaze to lock onto his. “There has been a vote of no confidence in you—”

  “Which way did you vote?”

  Monica looks desperately into his angry eyes. “Bob, this can’t go on.”

  “Hear you lobbied the coalition over Trinity. Didn’t think you cared.”

  A tinge of bitter anger on Monica’s face, “It’s my name over the door, too. I’m not going to let Blake destroy this company and if that means keeping that little shop of horrors hidden until it’s done its job then so be it.”

  Robert is in a defiant mood, “I’m not going before Blake’s committee to be humiliated, just so he can make a name for himself.” But the defiant demeanor abruptly evaporates. He shifts away from her, uneasy on his feet and a shaky hand to a worried forehead. Monica is visibly taken aback.

  A rage flashes onto his face, his finger jabbing toward her, “I’ve had just about enough of this.”

  Monica stands her ground to confront him.

  “This isn’t about Blake, is it. This is about you.”

  “Don’t go there, Monica. Don’t you dare. I swear to God—”

  From Robert’s perspective Monica’s avatar aggressively approaches him. Now he stands his ground as she rounds on him.

  “It’s Trinity, isn’t it. It’s the lie. It’s why you don’t go there anymore. Why you buried yourself in the Afrika Project.”

  “Trinity can run itself—”

  “You’re not ru
nning from Blake, You’re running from your own demons. To face Blake means facing them. Acknowledging them.”

  “No—”

  “It’s given Blake the excuse he needs. Traction to his arguments. We stop him, we’re outed. We don’t stop him, he opens Pandora’s box. Either way the world sees. Misguided opinion does the rest. No Trinity, no Afrika—no nothing.”

  “That’s not the way I see it. I have the high ground.”

  “Not for long you don’t. Either you face him down or your head will be handed to him.”

  “The board can go to hell.”

  Monica throws her hands up in exasperation. “Then tell me, Bob. Now that you have the world’s attention, just what is it you plan to do?”

  “Put on a show.”

  SKUNKWORKS

  From ten thousand feet it is a series of vast hangars nestled at the base of a mountain range, from which a thin shining line projects out across the Nevada desert; at ground level it resembles a Hollywood studio. The Cantor Satori skunkworks is already a hive of activity, with media trucks representing the world over, those just arrived being directed to the endmost hangar. A well-organized and well-executed attention-grabbing event.

  The star attraction sits in hangar three. The Pegasus space plane. The size of a small airliner, exceptionally sleek in its lines and with far more form than the function requires, it is a childhood fantasy designed to mesmerize a world into forgetting, just for a moment, all its troubles.

  The Pegasus sits atop a rocket sled, itself atop a raised linear trackway; five kilometers of superconducting magnetic rail disappearing into the distance. With the tracks energized the sled floats on invisible frictionless couplings.

  High above, gantries afford the media the best seats in the house as engineers and technicians hasten about their duties on the hangar floor below. All is beamed across the Earth ready for the main event—a spectacular test of the linear accelerator.

  Already used to launch materials to the orbital construction site of the Afrika, the linear accelerator is old news. The media need something to fill the gap while everyone waits, so it’s the familiar stock footage of the of the giant ‘sling shot’ in action—stubby cargo craft being slung into space, arriving at the orbital construction site of the skeletal Afrika and being unloaded by robots; simple minded, first-generation machine-based intelligences, unkindly dubbed ‘Embies.’